


Quoting Herman Melville Never Did Anyone a Bit of Good

by Eurydice



Category: Archer - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 21:54:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/142105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eurydice/pseuds/Eurydice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Archer is a hostage, Cyril is crying, Malory is yelling, and Cheryl thinks she's black.  All in a day's work at ISIS.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quoting Herman Melville Never Did Anyone a Bit of Good

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kormantic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kormantic/gifts).



There were days, Pam thought, when blowing up the building seemed like the best course of action. This was one of those days. Archer was captured, Malory was yelling, Lana was loading a gun, Cyril was... crying, actually, which Pam secretly found hilarious, and Cheryl was inexplicably and insistently claiming to be black.  


"Listen, my soul sister," she was saying amidst the ruckus, "y'all can't _even_ just go running off like dat."  


Cyril let out a loud sob and buried his face in his handkerchief. "You can't, Lana. You can't leave me when I'm like this. First you interrupt Stir-Friday again to answer, by actual count, fourteen phone calls, all about Archer, and then you run out of it again to come here and save him. I'm beginning to think you don't actually like Stir-Friday at all."  


Up on the screen, Archer rolled his eyes. "Could you please not debate the merits of Stir-Friday while I'm shackled to the wall of a gulag? Jesus, it smells like Krieger's jockstrap in here."  


"I would just once like Friday to be about us, like it was before. You used to love my stir-fry."  


"KY and stale Cheerios, is how it smells."  


"Oh, she's going to run off," snapped Malory. "She's going to run off and save Sterling from... from... well, whoever the hell has him this time. I swear, Sterling, how in God's name did you manage to get yourself roofied again? Don't you ever pay attention during our Hostage Prevention Seminars?"  


"Of course I do, Mother. Don't you ever pay attention during our Raging Bitch Prevention seminars?"  


"Oh no he _di_ -in't."  


"Cheryl, I swear to God, if you don't stop talking like that, I'm going to shove this AK-47 so far up your ass you'll be able to pull the trigger with your tongue." Lana rammed the magazine home and slung the rifle over her back. She struck an impressive stance, and Pam found herself staring. And drooling a little.  


Cheryl propped one foot on the back of Malory's couch, where she'd been reclining for the past twenty minutes. "Naw, Shawtie, I told you. The name's Caramel, to go with my luscious --"  


The snap of the rifle cut through the din – Cyril looked up mid-sob – as Lana leveled it at Cheryl. "Call me that again."  


"I'm just --" Cheryl swallowed nervously, and her throat gave a dry click, "I'm just trying to get in touch with my African roots."  


"African roots?" hooted Archer from the screen. "What, did you plant a tree in Burundi? Burundi's in Africa, right?"  


"What African roots?" said Lana evenly. The rifle was steady in her hand.  


"It sounds like it should be in Africa. Burundi. Yeah, that's Africa, right, I mean it's gotta be."  


Pam decided to make her first contribution to the conversation. "Right on the border of Lake Tanganyika."  


"Thank you! And... that's in Africa too, right?"  


"My great great uncle was born in Johannesburg," said Cheryl, now sitting up straight. "I am technically an African-American."  


For the barest instant, Pam thought – in fact she knew – that that was the end for Cheryl. In her imagination, she could actually see Lana's eyes narrow, see that slim, coffee-colored finger tighten on the AK's trigger and send a spray of bullets into Cheryl's pseudo-beehive. Malory would have the janitorial staff in here for weeks until the brains were out of the wallpaper.  


The moment passed. Lana wordlessly lowered the rifle.  


Archer broke the silence. "So, your name is Caramel now? I'm not going to remember that."  


Lana whirled to face the screen. "For God's sake, Archer, where the hell are you? And how do you explain getting drugged _again_?"  


"Oh, I'm sorry, Lana, forgive me for trying to enjoy myself once in awhile. I guess not all of us can be content with the roller coaster of a good time that is Stir-Friday."  


"This is like the ninth time for you, isn't it? Do you just like the taste of GHB?"  


Archer let out an angry sigh, his hands clenching into fists. "Yes, because I'm the only one who makes mistakes at ISIS. You know, 'He who has never failed somewhere, that man cannot be great.'"  


Blank stares. The only sound was of Cyril choosing that moment to blow his nose.  


"Oh, _come_ on," Archer shouted. "Am I the only person who's ever read Herman Melville?"  


Lana took a few steps closer to the screen. "Yup. Because the rest of us were too busy learning how to be effective field agents to read a three thousand page book about some asshole who uses his peg leg to jack off to whales."  


"That's not... wait, how would that even work?"  


Cheryl giggled. "I could think of a way."  


Pam rolled her eyes. "Of course you could. You've had everything up there."  


From behind Pam came the clink of ice cubes as Malory fixed herself another drink. "Well, so far we've covered stir fry, Krieger's jockstrap, the location of some godforsaken African country, Sterling's favorite nineteenth-century novelist, and most importantly, Cheryl's masturbation habits. Now can we please move on to the matter of how to rescue my son?"  


"The name is Caramel."  


"Hallo?"  


There was a new face on the screen, that of a bearded, ponytailed man. He was standing in front of Archer, waving and giving them a sheepish smile. "You look familiar," said Lana.  


"My name is Mannfred," said the man, who spoke with a German accent. "I have kidnapped your agent."  


"Duh," muttered Cheryl, now reclining on the couch again.  


Mannfred seemed flustered by the interruption. "So, uh, we... that is, I... will trade him."  


"I am _not_ giving up those plans," said Lana, now nose-to-nose with the screen. "It took me three weeks to get them back from ODIN, so if you want an invisible helicopter, you're gonna have to figure out how to build it yourself."  


"I do not want an invisible helicopter," said Mannfred.  


"What are you, gay?" said Archer from behind him. "No, wait, even gay guys want an invisible helicopter. What's wrong with you?"  


"I do not want an invisible helicopter," Mannfred repeated, louder this time. As his gaze fell once again on Lana, he added, "I want to trade... for you."  


There were a lot of responses to that comment, Pam thought, that would have been appropriate. Something dangerous. Something threatening. Something that started with _It'll be a cold day in hell before_ or _You're gonna have to go through me if you_. Something not along the lines of Archer's: "That was a good significant pause. 'I want to trade... for you.' The significant pause is a dying art."  


"Me?" said Lana. "You want to trade Archer for me?"  


"Yes."  


"Why?"  


Mannfred hesitated. "I have my reasons."  


"Another significant pause. This guy... this guy is a master. That wasn't as good as his. I want to try again. This guy... is... a master. How was that?"  


"Fine, if you'll tell me where you are, I'll come make the trade," said Lana. Her fingers were pressed to the bridge of her nose.  


"What?" Cyril got to his feet, stuffing his handkerchief into his pocket. "No, you won't. I... I forbid it! There. I am forbidding you to trade yourself for Archer."  


There was silence in the room for at least fifteen seconds. Even Mannfred looked startled. From her place by the door, Pam quite clearly heard Cheryl mutter, "Aww, _hell_ no."  


"You... forbid me?" said Lana softly.  


"I do," said Cyril. "Y-yes, I forbid you."  


Malory set down her drink. "Listen, you miserable little comptroller --"  


Lana's voice was silky, a poisonous purr. "Oh, hey, Malory, I've got this, thanks." She stalked silently over to where her paramour stood trembling; he didn't speak, but he didn't back away, either. Pam saw drops of sweat standing on his brow. "You don't get to tell me what to do, baby. You forbid me... _nothing_."  


"An excellent significant pause. I have got to practice that."  


"So, Mr. Mannfred," Lana went on in that gentle, even tone, "just tell me where to go and I'll be there."  


Mannfred blanched. "Never mind. I knew this was a stupid idea. I will find something else to trade to those people. Mr. Archer, you are free to go."  


"What?" said Archer.  


"What?" said Lana.  


"Fo' shizzle?" said Cheryl. Moments later, as the butt of the AK-47 connected with her temple, she slumped unconscious onto the couch.  


Mannfred held up his hands. "If you come here, I think you will not let yourself be traded. I think you will kill me in some horrible way."  


A shrug. "That's probably true."  


"So I am going to roofie your Mr. Archer again and unchain him. I am sure he will make it back to you with no problem. We are nearby. Sorry to inconvenience you." He offered an absurd little bow; a few seconds later, the screen went black.  


"Well," said Cyril brightly. He began to polish his glasses. "That was a wonderful resolution. I for one am very happy that Archer's coming back to us unharmed."  


Lana's eyes narrowed. She leaned forward, and for the barest instant Pam thought that Cyril's windpipe would soon be gripped in Lana's teeth. Instead, Lana simply said, "Old. Korean. Lady. Now."  


Cyril flushed. "No, Lana, please don't make me do that again. She already calls me Mr. Pervert every time I go in there."  


"Then you have a choice. You can either be Mr. Pervert, or Mr. I'm Never Getting Laid Again. What'll it be?"  


"You can all be Mr. or Miss Getting the Hell Out of My Office," said Malory. She slumped onto the sofa, only to immediately leap up again when she landed on Cheryl. "Oh, for the love of... somebody get this out of here."  


By then, though, everybody was gone.


End file.
